


Man in the Mirror

by BabalooBlue, Brighid45



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:00:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24505837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabalooBlue/pseuds/BabalooBlue, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brighid45/pseuds/Brighid45
Summary: Co-written by Babalooblue and Brighid45: what might have happened during that long-ago, fateful meeting in New Orleans? Nothing profound, just a what-if romp. House/Wilson friendship, lots of drinking and a little deduction here and there.
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter One

This was turning into the worst day of his life. And only yesterday morning, when he signed for that package, James had thought things couldn’t get any worse. He didn’t need to open it to know what it contained. There was no way he could have imagined ending up in jail before the day was over.

And yet, here he was. He’d been kept overnight, one of the more unpleasant experiences he’d gone through, including cadaver dissection in med school. Now he felt sticky, rumpled and in dire need of coffee, a shower and shave, and a flight out of New Orleans in short order. None of that would happen anytime soon, though.

The clang of the cell door snapped him out of his thoughts. The burly cop who’d hauled him in stood there, his expression impassive, though James had the distinct impression he was amused.

“You’re free to go. Bail’s been paid.”

This was a surprise. Nobody knew he was here. Except for the sender of the letter, apparently. But he wasn’t going to question a cop. He’d tried that when he had been processed last night. It hadn’t ended well.

Now he was outside the station, disoriented and fighting a massive headache. The morning was already hot and steamy, with plenty of bright sunshine in a blue sky. James stared at his surroundings, not sure where he was in relation to the convention center. There wasn’t a cab to be seen either. He sighed a little and started down the steps. Maybe he could find a local who’d point him in the right direction . . . He squinted at the street name embedded in the sidewalk--Royal. He’d been somewhere on Bourbon Street last night, hadn’t he? He should probably just head out - he’d find a cab eventually.

James patted his pockets. Nothing missing. The cop had just shoved his belongings - including that damn package - towards him and left to deal with some other poor bastard. For a second he had wondered if there was something else he should be doing but then just picked up everything without a word and slithered through the door to freedom. He needed to get out of this place.

“I took care of it.”

James stopped. The voice had come from behind him. It was low, raspy and not all that friendly--but somehow it sounded familiar. Confused, he turned around.

The man who stood there was tall and lean, with an unruly mop of chestnut curls and bright blue eyes in a bony face just short of handsome. He wore jeans and a faded t-shirt and looked as disheveled and travel-worn as James felt.

“Do I--do I know you?” He stayed where he was, unsure of the other man and the situation.

“Yes and no.” The man nodded at the envelope. “You’re attending the medical convention, and you’ve been carrying that thing around since yesterday. You broke a mirror in the hotel bar because you got pissed off--”

“Okay, okay, okay. You’ve established your credentials.” James rubbed his forehead and hoped the ache there wouldn’t get worse.

“I know a place where they’ll take care of that.” The man turned on his heel and walked off. “Come on, it’s not gonna get any better if you just stand there,” he said over his shoulder.

James really had no choice. He just hoped this ‘place’ would also have a shower and a bed. “Okay--hey!” His alleged benefactor was already halfway down the block. “Wait up! I--I don’t even know your name!”

The man gave no indication that he’d heard him, so James was forced to break into a run before the guy disappeared from sight.

James found him waiting in front of what looked like a bar. “Took you long enough.” There was a hint of amusement in that rough voice now. “Come on, you can buy me breakfast.”

“Uh . . .” James felt his face grow warm. “I’m . . . I can’t. Kinda broke at the moment.” He wasn’t really sure about that, but from the amount he’d spent on the convention and at the bar the night before, his main account was probably tapped out and he’d have to transfer funds from his savings.

The man rolled his eyes. “Well, what’s another fifty more,” he grumbled, opened the door and went in.

“Wait--what?” James stood there for a moment, confused. Then it hit. “You--you paid my bail?”

“Told you, I took care of it.”

“But… but I thought…”

“Eat first,” was the only reply he got.

‘Breakfast’ was one word for the huge repast put down before them. James hadn’t seen this much food for a morning meal--well, he’d never seen it, actually. He was still trying to decide whether to start with the omelet or the huge skillet of meat, eggs and potatoes when the other man pushed a mug of milky coffee towards him and nodded. “House.”

“Huh?”

“House. Greg House.” One corner of his mouth quirked up a bit.

It took James a moment to understand this was a name. “Oh, um, yes.” He wiped his hand on a napkin and extended it across the table. “James Wilson.”

“I know.” 

“What? How?”

“Paid your bail, remember?” Greg ignored James’s hand. James felt his cheeks grow hot again. He pulled his hand back and picked up the cup of coffee in an attempt to cover the awkward moment.

“So, where are you from?”

“You still haven’t opened the envelope, James _Evan_ Wilson.” Greg slurped his coffee and aimed a glance at James, bright and sharp as a diamond.

“No, I haven’t. What’s it to you?” The anger and anxiety he’d managed to stuff down inside bubbled up. The ease with which it happened scared him. He wondered what else this stranger knew about him. With an effort he made his tone more reasonable. “Sorry . . . sorry. Didn’t get much sleep last night.” He lifted the cup and sipped. It was creamy instead of sweet, with a bitter edge he wasn’t sure he liked. He looked for sugar packets but they were across the table, inaccessible over the mound of food between him and his benefactor. “Um--could you pass me the sugar please?”

“You need a double shot of bourbon in that coffee.” Greg stuffed half a sausage into his mouth, chewed twice, and swallowed. “WAITER!” he bellowed. James winced.

“I don’t--”

Their server appeared, an older man who lifted an enquiring brow at Greg.

“Double shot of Booker’s for the gentleman.”

“Wait--I--” James watched the server head off to the bar. “Great, more alcohol.”

“Hair of the dog.” Greg ate the other half of the sausage. “I didn’t think another Hurricane would be wise.”

James rubbed his forehead. “No… probably not.” He’d had enough of those the night before, from what little he could remember.

The server returned and set a shot glass by James’s plate, nodded at them and went off to another table. Before James could do anything, Greg picked it up and dumped the contents in the coffee cup, licked the last few drops out of the glass, and abandoned it. James stared at him.

“Go on,” Greg nodded. “You’ll feel better. You know I’m right.”

“But there’s a double shot in this!” James peered into the contents of his cup. The smoky fragrance of decent bourbon filled his nose. “Oh, what the hell.”

It tasted good, much to his surprise. Greg scooped a huge forkful of potatoes onto his own plate. “Open it.”

“Open what?” James blinked. He’d almost forgotten. “Oh.”

Greg waved the fork at him. “Go on. Do it.”

In that moment it occurred to James that he was in the company of someone he didn’t know, in a town he didn’t know, with a fine and maybe even jail time hanging over his head. And all his clothes and other belongings still resided in his hotel room at the convention center, with checkout time coming up sooner or later. He set down the cup. “No.”

“A little late in the day to have second thoughts.” Greg gave him a piercing glance before he returned his attention to his plate. “Do it.”

“ _Fuck_ you.” The words tumbled out before he could stop them, reasonableness be damned. “You think just because you paid my bail and bought this--this incipient heart attack on several plates, you can tell me what to do?”

“Yeah, I can.” Greg looked at him again. “Right now, I own you.”

“Greg--”

“ _House_.” The other man’s tone changed in an instant--cold, flat. Even through his anger, James felt a little jolt of something like alarm.

“Fine, whatever--you don’t own me, okay? Let’s get that straight--”

Greg finally put down his fork and leaned back. He seemed to look at James with some amusement now. “Straight? Okay. Let’s be straight. Do you think your divorce will go away if you continue to ignore it? Or that the contents of that package have magically changed by carrying it around for 24 hours? You’ve probably added some sweat stains to the paperwork but any law student can tell you that won’t alter the content.”

It was as if all the air had left the room. James felt his stomach tighten, an ominous sign. Without a word he stood and turned, a little unsteady on his feet, desperate to find the bathroom. He heard Greg--no, House--say something--

A hand gripped his shoulder. “ _Sit_.” He was pushed back into his chair. “You’re not gonna vomit all over this very expensive breakfast, dammit.”

James took a deep breath. And another. He knew what was inside the envelope. And so, apparently, did House. “How…?”

“Does it matter?”

Yes, it did. How did some stranger off the street know what was going on in his life right now? “Yeah, it kinda does.” His voice sounded weird, distant.

“Okay, let’s see . . . You came to the convention with your wedding ring on, but after you got the envelope of doom, you started taking it off when you thought no one was looking. I also got a good look at the return address. Diamond and Fairbairn. I looked ‘em up. Divorce attorneys.”

James thought he knew how a stunned fish might feel right after the knockout blow. “You--looked them up?”

“That’s your only question? Seriously?” House offered a grin, though there was no humor in his gaze. “Yes, there’s this very recent invention called a computer. I hear they’re all the rage right now. The desk clerk at the hotel was happy to do a search, after a suitable application of charm and a twenty or two.”

There was also the question how this man knew he’d been wearing a wedding band. And, why he was even interested in him. But all this was too much for James right now. He would figure this out, just not at the moment.

When he looked up, House had pushed the envelope right in front of him. “Open it.” It was an order, not a suggestion.

So he did.


	2. chapter two

House finished off his omelet and started on the ham. He kept an eye on Wilson as he did so. The other man was absorbed in reading, his tousled head bowed over the papers. Up close it was easier to see he was fairly young, probably still in residency. His name tag at the conference had indicated he was employed at a good-sized hospital in New Jersey. That knowledge put the divorce in perspective; this guy was an overachiever, and that was probably putting it mildly. The paperwork confirmed it; even from this angle and upside-down he could get a good look. Still, it was better to pretend ignorance to some degree.

“So, what’s it say?”

Wilson pushed the pages together and stuffed them back into the envelope.

“None of your business.” His tone held a warning. House ignored it.

“Come on, I just invested a buttload of money in you. You could work off some of that debt if--”

“ _No_.” Wilson lifted his head and glared at House. Even hungover and exhausted, that basilisk stare was formidable. “Don’t. Okay? Just--don’t.”

House ate a chunk of ham. “‘kay,” he said after a few seconds of charged silence. “It’s no skin off my nose if your significant other wants to dump you.” He slurped some coffee. “You’re not eating.”

Wilson looked at the food, then at his plate, still pristine. He picked up his fork, skewered a sausage and placed it on the plate. House rolled his eyes.

“Amateur.” He offered his spoon. “Take some eggs too. Last time I’ll offer. After this everything’s mine.”

Wilson’s brows lifted. “You have room for all this?” He looked at House, a quick up-and-down inspection. “Fast metabolism.”

“Among other things,” House agreed. He reached over and picked up the sausage from Wilson’s plate, took a bite out of it. “You snooze you lose. Get busy on what’s left.”

Those brown eyes widened in astonishment--and then he saw it, that little flash of annoyance and amusement that meant he’d broken through the shell of anger and numbness, even if just for a moment.

He got Wilson to eat some eggs and ham, ordered fresh coffee for them both, and a double order of beignets. “Can’t visit New Orleans and not have ‘em with chicory coffee.”

“If you say so. I probably won’t ever come back.” Wilson picked up a beignet and dusted off the powdered sugar before he took a bite. House shook his head. Someone liked his coffee sweet but was worried about appearances.

“Don’t worry about that. All the tourists have sugar on their clothes, that’s how you know they’re from out of town.”

Wilson ate the other half of the beignet and gave House a level stare. “Why do you care?” he said after a brief silence.

“Specify.” House popped a beignet whole. Wilson blinked.

“Uh--about me. You must have been there when I got arrested.”

“You don’t remember?”

“I was drunk.” Wilson shrugged.

“Drunk and angry.”

“That guy at the jukebox . . .” A blush crept into Wilson’s cheeks. “I had good reason to get mad.”

“Uh huh.” House put a note of disbelief in his voice.

“Come on. ‘Leave A Tender Moment Alone’ ten times in a row? That isn’t enough to get you annoyed at least?”

“There’s a difference between ‘annoyed’ and ‘enraged’.”

Wilson shrugged again. House felt a vague sense of disappointment. It was clear specific information would require more digging. He finished his coffee, wiped his lips with a napkin, wadded it into a loose ball and tossed it across the table. “C’mon, finish up. We’ve got things to do, places to be.”

“The only place I need to be is in my hotel so that I can pack and get to the airport to catch my return flight.” Wilson set the napkin-ball aside. He used the tips of his fingers, and wiped them on his own napkin afterward. House hid a smile.

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” He leaned back, gave a loud belch and ran a hand through his hair. “You’ve got another full day in New Orleans before you go back to Jersey. Why not explore, do some sight-seeing?”

Wilson gave him a sharp look. “How do you know I’m here till Monday?”

“Educated guess.” House offered him a sunny smile. “Just makes sense.”

“ _How?_ ”

“Conference ends Friday, just in time for the weekend. Only an idiot would fly back before the fun really starts in this city. And it doesn’t look like you’ve got anyone at home you’d want to rush back to.”

Wilson winced. It was subtle, but House saw it. For a moment he wondered if he’d gone too far too fast. Well, it was all in a good cause anyway. He’d roll with it, no matter how it fell out.

“Thanks.” Wilson’s tone was acerbic, but it held a tiny hint of bitter amusement for all that. “Just remember, if you want to take me out it’s on your dime.”

“That’s what all my girls say.”

“Difference is, I’m not cheap.”

House flapped a hand at the remains of breakfast. “Better eat up now then. I’m not springing for snacks until lunch. Or supper.” He glanced at his watch. “Supper. This is brunch, apparently.” A happy thought occurred to him. “Hey, that means we can stop off on the way to Jackson Square and get daiquiris!”

“More alcohol?” Wilson rubbed his face. “You can’t be serious. It’s not even lunchtime.”

“Says the man who had a double shot with his breakfast.” House chuckled at the frown he received. “You’re in N’Awlins now, Yankee. Drinking is a sport here, not just something you do when it’s polite or acceptable.”

“Well gee, I’d really hate to be impolite.” Wilson looked over the bits and pieces. “Any chance we could get this reheated?”

After a proper offering of dead presidents, the waiter was more than happy to bring them some fresh coffee and another round of sausage, ham and eggs. House took what he considered to be his fair share as Wilson stared at him.

“Where the hell do you put it all? This is more than just a fast metabolism. Have you had your thyroid--”

“Yeah, all that.” House snagged a large chunk of andouille and gave it a couple of token chews before he swallowed. “‘Mfine. Just a big eater.”

“Okay, bottomless pit, so what are your plans for the rest of the day?” Wilson helped himself to a couple of eggs and a piece of ham. House slurped some coffee and watched the other man eat--neat and precise, one bite at a time. ‘Meticulous’ was the word that came to mind.

“I told you--sight-seeing. You can’t leave the Big Easy without taking a look around.”

“So you say. What makes you the expert?”

This guy might need a little pushing, but he was no pushover. “I’ve been here a time or two.” It was also better to answer an inconsequential question once in a while; it was a cheap and subtle method to keep more in-depth and troublesome queries from being asked. “A walk down the boulevard will do you some good.”

“And you’re oh so interested in my welfare because…”

“Like I said, I invested --”

“-- a lot of money, yeah yeah, got it.” Wilson ate a bite of ham. “I’m gonna need sunglasses.”

House rolled his eyes. “Fine. Just remember, my wallet has a limit. So does my patience. At this rate we’ll be here until Mardi Gras. Get a move on.”

An hour later they stood outside a tiny drugstore wedged in between a bar and another bar. Wilson was now the proud owner of a cheap pair of shades, some aspirin and a diet Coke. House shook his head. “Come on.” He turned and headed down the sidewalk. Wilson followed with apparent reluctance. After fifty feet House stopped and faced him. “If you’re gonna sightsee with me, you have to keep up.”

Wilson pushed his shades up a notch. “Well, you’ll have to slow down a little then. The aspirin hasn’t quite kicked in yet and I feel a little sluggish after that huge breakfast. Brunch. Whatever. Whose fault is that?!”

“You barely ate any of it.” House turned back, but slowed his steps somewhat.

They made it almost down the block before Wilson broke the silence. “So, what’s your specialty?”

“Who says I’m a doctor?”

“Give me a little credit here. I might be hungover, but I’m not stupid.” Wilson began to sound impatient now. “You clearly followed me around. You’re either convention center staff or attending the convention. And somehow you don’t seem like a flunkey who pushes chairs into neat lines.”

This bit of basic deduction pleased House, much to his surprise. “Not bad.”

“So?” Wilson said when House fell silent. “Specialty?”

“Infectious diseases, nephrology.” House glanced at the other man. “You’re an oncologist.”

“How did you . . .” Wilson shook his head. “Never mind. Another educated guess, no doubt.”

House didn’t reply. He’d seen the program agenda tucked next to the envelope, with oncology lectures and panels all highlighted or circled. “Geriatric or peds, probably.”

Wilson stopped so suddenly House went several steps ahead before he realized what had happened. “Okay-- _enough_ of this. Just enough! Who the _hell_ are you and--and--how do you know all this? I’m not going any further until you tell me the truth!”

It was like being attacked by a teddy bear. House couldn’t help but chuckle. “I’m not stalking you.”

“Oh no? What else would you call it then?” Wilson took off his sunglasses. Suddenly he didn’t seem all that tired and hungover anymore. “You follow me around. You read my letters. You know things… what else would you call it? Level with me now, or this-- this trip ends right here.”

“Everything I’ve learned was by simple deduction.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get that. You’re Sherlock Holmes or something. What I want to know is why ...” Wilson’s voice faded. He tilted his head a bit and studied House. “Oho. I get it.”

“This should be good.”

Wilson raised an arm and pointed a finger at him. “You . . . are afraid.”

House lifted a brow, amused by the dramatic gesture. “Of . . .?”

“I’m wrong, it’s more than that. You’re scared to death of being bored.”

House’s good humor fled. He stared at the other man, stunned. _How did I let him learn so much?_ It was akin to having a bucket of cold water thrown at him. Wilson nodded.

“Thought so.” He put his sunglasses on. “If you don’t want people to know, you should learn to tone down the hyperactivity.” House winced at the slap. “So, where to, Sherlock?”

Without a word House turned away and strode off down the street.


	3. chapter three

Chapter Three

 _Damn those long legs._ James had no idea where his new-found companion was heading, and he had to break into a run just so he didn’t lose him. Traffic, both human and motorized, was picking up, and while the quarter consisted mostly of one-way streets you still had to pay attention. The number of people out and about surprised him - it wasn’t even lunchtime yet. Most of them were probably tourists like himself.

“Hey!” he yelled, and trotted after the other man. “ _Hey_! Wait up!” He put on a burst of speed, dodged past an older couple with a map, and rounded a corner. The guy was already halfway down the next block. He scattered out-of-towners like pigeons, oblivious to their presence. James increased his pace, aware that breakfast sat uneasy with all this running, but he had no real choice.

He thought he’d caught up with Greg-- _no, it’s House_ , he reminded himself--when he went around yet another corner and found the man had disappeared. James was on a street with the usual mix of bars, restaurants and small stores selling antiques and souvenirs. There were plenty of people about, even a two-man jazz band. But no House. “Dammit,” he muttered, and took a deep breath to keep his belly from making a bad decision. His headache increased instead, and he sighed. Where the hell was the man? Catching his breath, he turned once more, only to stare right at a huge go-cup with lurid pink lettering.

“Here, thought you’d be thirsty after all that running.” House thrust the cup at him. James accepted it without thinking and took a gulp. A pleasant burst of ice, sugar, fruit juice and citrus danced on his tongue, followed immediately by a wallop of several different kinds of alcohol. He choked and backed away, as if that would push the stuff out of his mouth, but instead it went straight into his stomach. After a moment or two his bellyache eased.

“What--what--what _is_ this?” he spluttered.

“Told you earlier.” House took a huge mouthful of drink from his own cup and swallowed loudly. Wilson stared into the depths of his cup.

“This is a daiquiri?” It didn’t look or taste even remotely like the ones he’d had before this insane excursion. “It’s more like a slurpee.”

“Wilson.” When he looked up, House nodded at his drink. “Go on. Live a little.”

“That’s what got me into this situation in the first place.” But he did as instructed. After the first shock it really didn’t taste that bad. Maybe the alcohol had numbed his tongue or something.

“Better.” House sounded both satisfied and a little smug. “Come on. I know a place where we can listen to some decent music, and they’ll let you bring in a drink if you buy one from them later on.”

James sipped his whatever-it-was and decided maybe House was onto something. He did feel better . . . it was probably the booze he’d just ingested, but the distraction provided along with it wasn’t bad either.

Carrying a drink around seemed to slow House down somewhat; at least James didn’t have to run to keep up with him. At what was an almost normal speed, they walked down the street and made a couple of turns until he was well and truly lost.

“Where . . . where are we?” The words felt a little strange in his mouth, as if he couldn’t quite form them right. He looked at his drink and found only about a third of it gone. He was buzzed on that small amount? A warning bell went off in his head, but he wasn’t sure if it was a legitimate caution or just the general situation he was in.

“Not too far from Preservation Hall.” House shook his cup and glanced over at James. “Slacker.”

Without a word James held out his drink. House eyed it, tossed his cup into the gutter and accepted the offering. In silence he turned and began walking once more. James caught up to him and moved to his right, to avoid plowing into streetlamps and hydrants.

“So,” he said after a few moments, “it bothers you that I know you don’t like to be bored.” His companion said nothing. “I see. You like to gather information on other people, but the same rules don’t apply to you.”

House took a big swallow of daiquiri but gave no reply. James pressed on. “That makes you ... a little creepy, you know.”

“Says the man carrying an unopened envelope around at a medical convention.” There was a sharp edge to the words.

“Yeah, I guess it could look that way.” He conceded the point to gain a few more. “But I’m not--not--” He waved a hand. “Not hauling someone all over town dumping drinks into them either, which you have to admit is also a little creepy.”

House glanced at him, one brow raised. “You aren’t all that good-looking, you know.”

James felt his cheeks grow warm. “Never said I was.”

“Uh huh. Here we are.” House ducked into a doorway. James stopped after a few paces and peered at the name,but it was so faded from years of sun and rain that it was unreadable. 

“What the hell, why not,” he said under his breath, and went in.

It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. By the time he could make out shapes and figures, he saw House at what looked like a jukebox. “Oh SHIT.” James felt a jolt of alarm. “House--don’t-”

_If she walks by the men folks get engrossed_

_If she winks an eye the bread slice turn to toast_

_She’s got a lot of what they call the most_

House turned to lean against the jukebox. With drink in hand, he raised it in salute and gave James a taunting little smile, long legs crossed.

_The girl can’t help it, she was born to please_

_And if she’s got a figure made to squeeze_

_Won’t you kindly be aware, the girl can’t help it_

The heat in James’s face increased; he was probably red right up to his hairline now. Without a word he turned to the bar, dug in his pocket and came up with a ragged five dollar bill, no doubt left over from a cab ride where he’d tipped the driver or room service, he couldn’t remember anymore. “Gimme a beer,” he snapped. “And not one of those fancy ones. Local.”

The bill was replaced with a beer in due course. James accepted the bottle, breathed deep and took a good-sized chug. He even managed to keep it down, though bitter, hops-laden malt didn’t pair well with fruit juice and whatever else had been in his previous drink.

“Why Doctor Wilson, you’ve been holding out on me.” House stood next to him now. It was clear he’d primed the jukebox with plenty of change; it blared some band James had never heard before. “You said you were broke.”

“Like me, my pockets have hidden depths,” James was tempted to turn them inside out. “Or _had_.”

“And you wasted it on a beer to prove your manhood.” House rolled his eyes. He plunked what was left of James’s daiquiri on the counter. “I’ll trade this in for a beer, but not that crap. Pale ale, whatever’s good.”

“Nice of you to join me.” James hoisted his bottle in a mocking imitation of House’s earlier gesture.

“Then I won’t say you’re gonna regret this.”

Four admittedly decent songs later, and James was tired of watching himself and House in the mirror behind the bar. What was it with mirrors in this town anyway? “So how did you end up with two specialties?”

House shrugged. “I had some spare time one afternoon.”

“Uh- _huh_. You must’ve been studying under Professor Hardy.”

House snorted. “Yep. All through med school.”

He could’ve just changed his mind at a very late stage, but most doctors would then simply state their one chosen specialty when asked. House clearly wasn’t someone who’d do things half-heartedly, so he had trained in two specialties for a reason. But he obviously didn’t want to divulge any more information, and James had already learned that digging would not get him anywhere. He sipped his beer and cast a look around the place.

It was early in the day for a bar to be this busy, but he understood by now that different rules applied in this city. This was probably not even close to normal for this joint.

“There’ll be live music in a little while,” House volunteered.

James didn’t bother asking how he knew. It was plain the man had spent more time in bars and around town than at the convention centre in the last three days. Although, he must’ve been there long enough to learn so much about a random guy walking around with an envelope under his arm. But why?

“What do you mean, why?” House sounded amused. James blinked. Had he spoken out loud?

“Uh . . . just a question.” He took another swallow of beer and wished he hadn’t.

“Tough to answer without any specifics.”

“Okay . . . why follow me around? Why me, anyway?” He knew it was probably pointless to ask, but he had to know.

House didn’t answer right away. “What difference does it make to you?”

“What--what difference--” James stuttered to a stop. The man had a point somehow. Really, what did it matter? He’d attended lectures, taken notes at panel discussions, talked with colleagues at dinners and on the way to various groups, and none of it had stuck with him. It was as if it happened to someone else while he stood by and watched. This whatever-it-was House had perpetrated . . . whatever his motives might be, at least James felt as if he was actually doing something like a real person, not just existing.

“You know what? You’re right.” It felt good to just say something without weighing his words for once. “It doesn’t. Make a difference, I mean.”

“Good.” House finished his beer. “The band should start their setup in a few minutes.”

It occurred to James then that he could be in his clean, air-conditioned hotel room now, taking a shower. Or he could order room service and have a nice, leisurely lunch while skimming through some articles he’d meant to read. But he would probably just sit by the phone, waiting for a call to tell him that Sam had changed her mind. Instead, he was here with a hyperactive, slightly annoying stranger who kept dragging him from one place to the next.

On balance, and on a slightly drunk head, he knew where he’d rather be. With a mental shrug he gave himself up to the moment and settled in for the live music.

_'The Girl Can't Help It', Little Richard_


	4. chapter four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line in House's note is taken from a story by Neil Gaiman. We thought it was appropriate under the circumstances. --Babaloo & Brig

The rest of the day was a blur of sound, alcohol, and House’s muttered asides, all of which made James laugh. At some point they left the bar and went out to the street. It was late afternoon now, and the sidewalk was crammed with people in various states of inebriation.

“It’s like a big party.” James sipped his drink. “Every--everyone’s all happy and shit.”

“And shit,” House agreed. He steered James down the sidewalk. “Let’s go. Preservation Hall is warming up, I can hear them.”

“Will they let us in if we’re drunk?”

House just chuckled. “Come on.”

Later on, James would remember bits and pieces of the rest of the evening: swaying with beer in hand to the sound of excellent traditional jazz; out in the soft muggy evening, with colored electric lights everywhere and music, always music, to beguile and tease them on to another club. James thought he’d never appreciated music until now. He wanted to dance and forget anything but the moment they were in, a little bubble of . . . well, he wasn’t quite sure what to call it, but it wasn’t pain or sadness. At one point he found himself going ass over teakettle down a flight of steps. _Isn’t this interesting_ , he thought as he lay draped over the bottom stair. House stood at the top looking down at him, and even in the dim light it was possible to see his amusement was edged with a bit of concern.

“Nice job,” he called. James struggled onto an elbow. There would be bruises tomorrow, he knew that much.

“‘Mfine,” he said loudly. “Than--thanks f’r asking.”

House just laughed and moved down the steps, to haul him to his feet. “Come on, the band’s good here.”

Everything seemed to move in a haze of sound, color and booze after that. He vaguely remembered at least one more bar after his escapade on the stairs, but then - nothing. He knew on some level he was very drunk and broke too, and both factors would get him into trouble eventually . . . but he also just didn’t care anymore. Trouble had already found him, by all accounts.

When he came to once more, he lay fully clothed on his hotel bed, face down. It was clear he’d been dumped there, if the ache in his back and neck was anything to go by. How he had arrived was a mystery, though. There were vague images of a cab and someone else giving directions. House, probably.

He eased upright a bit and winced as his head gave a warning shot of pain. Another hangover within twenty-four hours . . . “ _Jesus_ ,” he muttered, and coughed on a dry throat. The warning turned into a hard thump that kept going. James groaned and lay back down. As he did so, he felt paper under his cheek. It took him a few moments to figure out it was a note. He pulled it free and unfolded it with clumsy fingers, and tried to focus on the hideous scrawl, but he couldn’t manage it. He needed a shower and some coffee, and then he’d have to pack and get the hell out to the airport before his flight left . . . what time was it? He moved his focus to his watch and squinted. Nine a.m. . . . he had an hour to get himself cleaned up, checked out and to the Departures terminal. “ _Shit_ ,” he growled, and regretted it immediately.

Two hours later, he took his seat on the plane back home. Showered, dressed in his last clean shirt, his papers and books hastily stuffed into his carry-on, he had just about made it to the gate. The flight attendant kept a close eye on him - probably because he'd asked for some water as soon as he'd taken his seat. Two aspirin and a coffee helped the fog to clear a little. After one glimpse out the window to see New Orleans disappear behind them, he spent most of the flight asleep or, more appropriately, semi-comatose. At some point he woke to find the woman next to him giving him an inimical stare. He’d been asleep with his head on her shoulder; no doubt he’d snored his head off. “Sorry,” he said, and tried a slight smile. Her glare increased, so he straightened and kept his own gaze fixed on the seat in front of him for what was left of the flight.

His arrival home felt cold and empty. James left his luggage by the door, dumped a stack of mail on the lamp stand and headed into the kitchen to get a cold drink. Along the way he scanned the counters for a note or a letter, anything that Sam might have left behind, but there was nothing. He sighed and opened the refrigerator.

After a tasteless dinner of leftovers, he took the carry-on into the bedroom--just his bedroom now--and opened it to sort out the contents. Most of it went straight into the laundry hamper, to be dealt with at a later stage. Pulling out last night’s clothes actually made his eyes water. They reeked of alcohol, greasy food and cigars. Funny, he had no memory of smoking anything, legal or otherwise . . .

The mystery was solved when he got to the bottom of the case. A small bottle lay atop a pair of slacks. He picked it up and scanned the label: Perique. “What . . . _tobacco_ liqueur?” Just the name conjured up a vague image of him in a bar while someone else argued with the bartender as he’d sipped something that tasted smoky, aromatic and intense. James shook his head and set the bottle aside. As he did so, he saw a piece of crumpled paper tucked into a corner. He picked it up and smoothed it out, turned it over. It took a few moments to decipher the writing, but when he managed it, he was utterly surprised to find a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

_I am selfish, private and easily bored. Will this be a problem?_

_p.s. The duck is fine._


End file.
